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Browsing Category Libation

Yep, another post on sexism in beer. Why? Because as a friend just said, “with a topic like this, the quantity of supportive voices matter.” (Maybe a slight paraphrase)

To recap: the Brewers Association popped the cap off the 32nd annual Craft Brewers Conference last week in the beer-mecca that is Portland, Oregon. Amidst the networking, brewing innovations, and heavy drinking, several breweries decided to host events in strip clubs. The collective beer subculture responded, mostly negatively, denouncing such behavior as juvenile, unprofessional, and sexist.

The inherent sexism of the white male-dominated beer world is obvious to anyone willing to open their eyes and actually see, but for some inspiring commentary on the situation, see Melissa Cole’s open letter calling out boorish behavior for being exactly that, Heather Vandenengel’s painful but important message about living (and working) through her own personal encounters with sexism in our industry, and Jeff Alworth’s context-placing piece that helps explain PDX culture, and how it ties into what went down at CBC15. Stan Hieronymus also pulled together a great round-up, in case you’re somehow looking for even more proof that unabashed sexists are still alive, sitting in bars, drinking beer all over the world.

Look, I get it: beer is an industry where hedonism to the point of embarrassment is built-in to the business model. But that doesn’t mean we get to shrug accountability because it’s an “industry thing.” In fact, because the product we support contains inhibition-loosing adjuncts, we have more responsibility than other industries to remain professional and poised. It should be our goal to act like good human beings at all times, social posturing and levels of consumption be damned. It’s 2015 and we’re part of a modern, inclusive groundswell. Act like it. Be progressive, not regressive.

Those social aspects noted and very temporarily put on one side, I’d like to acknowledge an often unmentioned side of sexist beer attitudes: how fundamentally stupid they are, especially from a business perspective.

I don’t mean to use “stupid” as an ad hominem playground insult; I mean the very classic definition: “lacking intelligence or common sense.”

Example: It was stupid of Oliver to stick his hand into the hornet’s nest.

The “Portland Strip Club Debacle of 2015” is a large, obvious, easy to unpack and understand, manifestation of sexist attitudes in beer. It’s easy for men to say, “well this sort of thing can be avoided in the future!” then move on, as if pulling the head off the weed does anything to kill the roots. The sexism that still prevails is smaller and less obvious: those millions of every day micro-aggressions towards women that range from lewd advances to condescending dismissals. There is no bigger culprit of casual sexism than breweries who use women as sexual caricatures as a basic part of their marketing model.

Whenever some brewer gets put to task on social media for sexist branding, or any time I see a bottle of beer with a buxom female stereotype, I’m distressed, not only as someone who supports equality, but as a person with a functioning brain. A label is a blank canvas. A clear, effective way to market to independent thinkers. To slap some lame female objectification on your product is to say, “we lack any awareness of our industry’s demographics” and “have creative ability tantamount to dick and fart jokes,” which then translates to “don’t buy this beer” as said messaging alienates 50% of potential drinkers before they’ve even tasted it.

I know brewing (as a profession) wears a collar that’s bluer than it is white, and I can’t expect every single brewery to be pushing the boundaries of art. There’s always going to be some repetition because of boundaries of beer style, and some simplicity for rusticity’s sake.

But even the quaintest, small town brewery should have a marketing and branding plan, if only as a reflection of their commitment to the product. If the summation of your marketing process is “MOAR T&A,” I’m going to be pretty concerned about the culmination of your brewing process. A sexist label suggests sexism in a brewery’s staff, and subconsciously promotes a sexist environment wherever your beer is sold and consumed.

Said branding need not be as highbrow oblique as Brian Strumke’s “beer as modern art” approach at Stillwater Artisanal; hell, one of my local favorites, Heavy Seas Brewing, uses a pirate theme, which many would argue is childish, cheesy. Yet, the branding is consistent and the brewery’s marketing team creates thematically appropriate and clever titles that tie into the style of beer, like Red Sky at Night, Siren Noire, and Blackbeard’s Breakfast. Their commitment to their brand, creativity, and willingness to invest thought and energy into their designs makes them stand out, at least in local markets.

To throw away the chance to win over new drinkers by using sexist messaging, especially in a market swollen with competition, is the manifestation of immature thinking. “Craft” beer is so fresh and wide open that you could choose any relatively popular theme and probably make it successful. A video game themed brewery? A board game themed brewery? A “pioneer” brewery with beers named after famous composers or artists or scientists? I could think of a million ideas that I’d consider long before I even came close to, “let’s put a chick with bigbewbs on the label!”

Accidental or intentional sexism speaks louder than you ever could for yourself. I know some people argue it’s a part of that proverbially quoted but never quite defined “shock value,” or that is should be protected under freedom of speech. Some (usually male) people argue it’s empowering for women.

If you don’t get that it’s sexism: wake up; you’re being stupid (see above definition).

If you do get that it’s sexism, and still won’t change: you’re not stupid, but you’re also probably not a very nice human being to be around.

It can be hard to sway the minds of men who quickly shift the focus with chants of “not all of us” or minimize the situation with unfair comparisons to broader social problems. If they won’t accept that sexism is hurtful and degrading as a basic fact, perhaps they’ll listen if we tell them their designs have all the imagination of a horny 13 year old boy. If you’re a brewer or brewery considering (or already) using the image of an objectified or eroticized woman on your branding, take a moment to stop doing that, because what the hell? It makes you look bad, and women feel bad. The industry is guilty by association. Literally no one wins.

Remember: despite how easy it is to dismiss or derail the conversation about sexism in beer, because hey, after all, “it’s just beer,” sexism a real thing that really matters. It transcends beer, and is reflective of the attitudes of male-dominated cultures. If you’re not ready to face the idea of feminism yet, OK, but don’t try to defend sexist behavior as “no big deal” when our wives, sisters, mothers, aunts, nieces, and daughters, can and are being marginalized by a male lack of awareness. If you can’t contextualize it when it happens to a stranger, imagine a picture of your mother, scantly clad on a beer label, being callously remarked upon by guys repeating “hey, it’s just a joke, man” whenever you tell them to stop.

Brew good beer and don’t be stupid.

The first should be the hard part, not the second.

*My own research. I did as thorough a review of labels as time would permit; feel free to correct me in the comments if I missed something. I’ll update accordingly.

Welcome to chapter ten of “December, 1919″, a serialized novel written by Oliver Gray. New chapters will be published every week, unless the author is hit by a car. Links to all published chapters can be found here.

Chapter 10

“Rumor has it you gave the IRS inspector a hard time.” McGuire didn’t look up from the newspaper he was reading.

“I suppose.” I said, standing in the doorway to his cramped office. He’d just brewed coffee and the silky smell of roast swam across the room and up my nose. “I thought it was all pretty simple, really. He asked questions. I answered them.” I wanted to sit down, but McGuire made no offer.

“Rumor also has it that you’re not going to take this lying down.” He said, lifting his head and looking at me, one eyebrow raised.

I swallowed the lump of anxiety in my throat. Only Virginia knew about the malt; William had suspicions, but was far too meek to speak to anyone.

“They’re my rumors, of course,” McGuire said, after I remained silent. “Rumors that you’re going to finally put that writing talent of yours to good use. Rumors that you have some insider information into the way this “prohibition” is being handled.” He leaned back in his leather chair, folding his hands behind his head. “Rumors that a certain paper might be happy to run that story, if it’s well written.”

I stumbled to respond. “Oh. Yea. That. I probably should write something, huh?” The fear decrescendoed, but I still had to beat the fires of panic down to keep them from spreading to my face.

McGuire smiled. “Beats transcribing notes. Here.” Across the desk he slid a worn leather notebook, brow and cheeks scratched and marred by years of journalistic abuse. I opened it to find perfectly crisp white sheets beneath the covers. “The outside’s not much to look at, but I had Jason downstairs bind a whole new pad inside. That leather’s got history; it’s what I used when I first started writing.” He said, looking equal parts proud and expectant. “Time to starting taking the notes yourself, Cooper.”

I wanted to reach over the desk and hug him, but quickly returned to the doorway. McGuire wasn’t the hugging type, but this was the first time he’d done anything even bordering on paternal.

I flicked through the pages, letting the sharp edges of the brand new paper pass across the callous of my thumb. The sheets fanned a dry mustiness into my face. The smell of fresh potential. “Thank you,” I said, quieter than I intended, “I’ll put it to good use. I know just the man to talk to first.”

“Good.” He said, pushing himself and his chair away from the desk, standing, and stretching. “I’ve been doing some outside reading. Is this something you could do?” He passed a section of newspaper to me, folded over, like he was trying to shield the contents from prying eyes. The national headlines had all been centered on the coming legal changes, but this one, clearly from a small-town paper was different:

“Pottsville Brewery to Weather Coming Drought with “Near-Beer”

A low-alcohol brew had been part of Virginia’s original idea, but I had shot her down, thinking it impossible. Continued brewing, even of something barely alcoholic, would certainly keep us in malt and hops. Maybe even give us an avenue to launder some of our other, less public projects. “Near-beer.” I said, pretending to ponder.

“Yep. Looks like beer, smells like beer. There’s so little alcohol it narrowly dips under the government’s mandate. I tried some last week in the District; doesn’t taste amazing, but it’s better than nothing if you’ve got that particular thirst for suds.” McGuire said, pantomiming a swig from a very large and very imaginary mug of beer. “From what I understand it’s just watered down regular beer.”

“Potentially a small beer made with second or third wort runnings. Watering down a regular beer would create something cidery and nigh undrinkable.” I looked up at the ceiling, imagine the tiny grist you’d use to brew a beer less than one percent by volume.

“Now you sound like your father.” McGuire said, breaking my concentration with a slap on the shoulder. “Uptown is yours now; I say you keep it running through all this. I’d put a hefty bet on that being what your father wanted.”

I hung my head, picturing dad. McGuire was probably right, but the mention of him, his plans, the rest of his life, stung. “We already signed everything over to the IRS. This would have been a little more helpful a week ago. There’s no way we can go back on that now.” I said. I hoped I wasn’t being too short.

“I’ve already thought of that,” he said, as he picked up the phone. “Jess, can you please send in Mr. Schweinsteiger?” A voice on the other end complied and then hung up.

A minute later, a hulking frame, nearly 6 and a half feet, ducked to step into McGuire’s office. He was lean but muscular, square-jawed, but handsome in an imposing sort of way. “Ah, Mr. Cooper, my pleasure. Should I call you Jack?” He spoke very quickly, words painted in a fresh coat of German accent. “Oh but how rude! Let me introduce myself. Tobias Schweinsteiger, esquire.” He bowed at the waist, nearly hitting his head on the ceiling fan.

I bowed back, and took the man’s hand in an overly firm handshake. The power in his hands bordered on supernatural. I thought for a second he was going to shake my entire body in one accidentally violent greeting. “Schweinsteiger?” I asked, butchering the attempt to pronounce his name with my American inflection.

“Ya. My family has come along way from raising pigs. Now I put them in prison.” He laughed. I could have sworn the whole room shook. “Gregory says you may be in need of my services?”

Gregory. McGuire’s first name, finally. I looked over at him, and he shrugged. “Services? What is it exactly that you do?” I asked.

“I help those who have been wronged. Especially wronged by bad people. I have a reputation, you see.”

“A reputation?” I said, looking up into his grey eyes.

“Yes,” he said, “I have been practicing law in the US for sometime now, but I wasn’t always a barrister. In Germany, zey call me Der Ritter.”

McGuire chimed in. “The Knight.”

Schweinsteiger reached into his coat and pulled out a card. With a flick, he tucked it into my shirt pocket. He then lifted his right fist to his chest – as if he was holding a sword – and grinned at me.

“I protect the innocent,” he said, pride now blended into his accent. “From what I have been told, you may need some protection.”

It was a bitter divorce, but one sanctioned by the crown. Being recently knighted into the kingsguard of craft, I had a sworn duty to uphold the virtues of good beer. It fell on me to raise and drain a defiant chalice, strike out against the heavily entrenched enemies of our righteous cause. For half a decade I railed against macronic infidels, a good little soldier marching ever on in a crusade against people and products I had placed, without much deep thought, into the juxtaposed camp of “them.”

Years of battle chipped away the armor of my resolve. The people I’d sworn my sword against no longer prsented so clearly as adversaries; their culture and beliefs more gentle and benign than I’d been lead to believe. My zeal for the cause has mellowed, and my cup – once full of devotion and the dry-hopped blood of my enemies – now brims and spills with appreciation for anyone who can consistently brew beer and keep a business running. This veteran of the holy wars is tired, battleworn, and sated, no longer bristling with the vim of an stainless steel-wielding revolutionary.

He just wants to relax and have a beer.

All literary hyperbole aside, the modern craft beer movement and the 13th century “Just Wars” have some odd and somewhat unexpected similarities. Both followed a period of rapid but individualized industry growth, both relied on rampant evangelism from the everyday citizen to promote and further the cause, both hid substantial financial and economic motives very cleverly beneath a veneer of social and religious purity. Retaking and safeguarding Jerusalem is ecumenically equivalent to supplanting and dethroning the three false prophets of Bud, Miller, and Coors. The craft crusade was (and is) a modern spiritual war, fought with the twin spears of social media and millennial dollars.

Enter the descendants of King Gottlob Jüngling, the ancient and hallowed founders of the kingdom of Yuengling. Settled in the east lifetimes before our comparatively fledgling “craft,” the kingdom survived the prohibitionist dark ages, a great depression, and two world wars. Its chief export – an amber near ambrosia when compared to competing pale lagers – rarely makes it to other kingdoms west of the great river, and yet they remain stalwart in sales and solidarity. Those long emigrated from the lands still recall the lager with fond nostalgia, and its place in beerish lore remains unquestionable.

Logistically, Yuengling rests near the fully heathen expanses, and many crusaders (including myself) passed through their lands during our collective quest. When drinking our chosen beer – all hopped and heady – it was easy to dismiss their traditional, legacy beer as “meh,” and even easier to add them as another in the long list of breweries that needed forceful enlightenment. It was all part of the moral tapestry woven by the lords of better beer, part of the lexicon de fermentation:

To drink Yuengling was blasphemy!

Until, with the flick of a pen, the reigning powers decided it wasn’t anymore.

I’d argue, now that I’ve seen the fields of combat in person, that Yuengling never really belonged on the opposite side of the craft crusade, but was lumped in with BMC because of their own success and proximal similarities. They were the France and Italy and Hungary of the actual crusades; unfortunate and probably undeserving collateral damage of a war that just so happened to march through their territory. We may have found (if we gave Yuengling a chance) that they were actually a lot like us, willing to change, adapt, grow, live in peace. Their summer wheat last year is some proof come to market, and who knows, maybe, now that they’ve found themselves crowning the BA’s top 50 list, their brewhouse practices will continue to evolve.

Drinking veterans seem quick to decide a brewery’s place if they do not find it perfectly in-line with their tastes, to the point they’ll write it off as “bad” and declare war. For every enthusiast I’ve heard decry Yuengling for being boring or sub-par, many more continue to buy and drink the stuff, at least in throngs thick enough to place them even higher than Boston Beer in terms of sales. Is it “fair” that a change in a definition would launch them to the top, nudging other breweries who’ve worked diligently for those places down to 3 and 4? Yea. Of course it’s fair. At least as fair as anything else in Free Market America™.

You need not believe me on words alone; go pour a Yuengling and a Budweiser or MGD side-by-side. That brownish-amber is the same it has always been, and decidedly different (arguably more “craft”) than a pale American lager. Of course it’s not Pliny or Jai Alai or even Boston Lager, but it’s tradition in bottles, a quiet and subtle bucking of the trends that’s been around longer than most young drinkers have been alive. It isn’t some big brewery pretending to be craft, it’s America’s oldest adhering to what has kept them in business for so long through so much. Every beer has its place (yes, even Bud Light Lime, although I’m not sure what that place is yet); Yuengling’s is on the East Coast, very affordably taking the edge off of humid summers days.

I’ve now come full circle, and annulled my annulment. While my mind has stretched from my experience and I’ll never go back to single-beer exclusivity, I will no longer distance myself from a brewery than deserves a chance to prove who they are in a post-war world. I’ll drink Yuengling because I legitimately like the stuff and always have, all BJCP gripes and IBU-snobbery aside. You’re free to disagree and dismiss me as a tasteless cretin, but you’re not free to tell others not to like it.

After all, is not freedom of choice why any warrior dons his armor and draws his sword? Why fight and spill wort for the cause, if not for who you are, and what you believe in?

All I ask is that they finally retire the green, twist-off bottles for the sake of UV/02 protection, even if they are an iconic part of their marketing strategy.

Welcome to chapter nine of “December, 1919″, a serialized novel written by Oliver Gray. New chapters will be published every week. Links to all published chapters can be found here.

Chapter 9

He introduced himself as Reginald “but you can call me Reggie” Buckner. He announced on licorice tainted breath that he was here at the behest of the Internal Revenue Service, and would be performing a final inventory. He smelled like musk left to dry on old paper. He smiled like a card shark about to drop a royal flush on an unsuspecting table of players who were all in.

The brewery staff lined up like weary soldiers; Virginia, William, and myself as front line vanguards, scouting out the inspector’s tactical positions. His pacing was methodical and practiced, the deliberate, probably counted steps of a dangerously bureaucratic man who took his job very seriously and liked it very much.

“I know this may be uncomfortable, but if we can simply review what is in stock against your final purchase orders, we can have this done quickly.” Buckner said, flipping through sheets of paper attached to a clipboard. His pencil darted across the page, grating graphite engraving an epitaph on our legal tombstone. “First things firsts, let’s discuss raw ingredients.”

The hired laborers had piled the remaining bags of uncracked malt into a tidy pyramid directly in the middle of the brewery floor. Loose kernels spilled from small tears in the cloth, the sugary life blood of the brewery seeping out through a hundred tiny cuts. Buckner kicked a sack,covering his shiny black shoes in yellowish dust. “Malted barley first. The confirmation slip from your last delivery says you accepted forty five, one hundred pound bags of American two-row barley from Shipley Malting Company. I only count 32 bags. Where are the other 13?”

I spoke up. “We brewed a stock ale two weeks ago. It used nearly twice the malt of our normal recipes.”

“And who are you, boy? I’ll take my information from someone in charge, thank you.” He said, nose turned skyward, as dismissively as possible.

Virginia’s knuckles stretched white. “This is Jack Cooper, sir.” Her voice slashed through the tension in the room, a delicate but deadly axe.“And he owns this brewery.”

Buckner looked down at his papers, then back up at me, then back down at his papers. “This is Jack Cooper?” The condescension fell off his face while incredulity climbed up it. “I’m sorry. I just…I expected someone…older.”

Virginia snapped, defensive and bitter. “Jack’s plenty old enough.” A fire, hard to define as anger or angst, flashed across her eyes.

“No need to get upset, ma’am, I’m just trying to do my job. Anyway, Jack, you were saying about the missing malt?” His tone shifted back to hard and professional, but the subtle change in his body language betrayed embarrassment.

“The stock ale took extra; about 300 pounds worth. We lost a batch of English style barleywine to infection last month, too, which should account for the difference.”

Buckner scribbled something hastily on his paper. “And do you have anything to account for this loss?” He asked, locking his eyes to mine. Grey, cold, probing.

“Nothing on paper,” I said, ” but our logistics manager, William, can verify.” William fidgeted, cracked his knuckles, and looked straight at the floor.

Buckner ran his finger down the paper, stopping abruptly and tapping when he reached William’s name. “Ah, Mr. Johnson. Can you verify?”

William sputtered, his words tripping over his tongue like a drunk on a midnight stumble home. “Er, yes. We brewed with it all. It’s gone.” William could barely make eye contact, and his fidgeting grew more pronounced the longer he stood at attention.

“Will cut his hand badly yesterday; I think he’s still shaken about it.” I said, deflecting.

Buckner walked closer to William, and asked to see his hand. Will raised it up, chest high, turning his palm over to show the dark red stains of dried blood on the white linen mummied around his fingers. “What happened? That looks serious.” Buckner said, keep his distance from the bloody hand.

“I…I cut it on the grist mill. There was some sharp metal and I wasn’t pay attention…” Will trailed off.

“I told him he should be resting. He’s afraid of blood. Last year our cooper snapped a hoop on one of the barrels, and it nearly took is arm off. I thought Will was going to faint.” I said, ” Unfortunately, we were all frantic to prepare for your visit, and, like my dad always said, a brewery is a dangerous place to rush.” I nodded at William, and he seems to calm down. A little.

Satisfied, Buckner walked back to the pile of sacks, scribbling more notes. “If Jack can answer the rest of my questions, feel free to go home and rest, Mr. Johnson.” Will looked at me, and I nodded. He quickly made for the door, thanking our dutiful inspector before grabbing his hat and coat and vanishing into the snow globed afternoon.

“He’s an odd one.” Buckner said, looking at the doorway.

“Yea, but he worked for my father for years, and is great at keeping orders straight.” I said. “What’s next?”

The rest of the inspection played out smoothly, all the actors knowing their roles, remembering their lines. The hop leaves, all sticky with yellow powder, were placed into large wooden boxes, and hauled out by two of Buckner’s behatted lackeys. After explaining that our yeast was nearly older than the brewery itself, and that to destroy it would be to destroy a piece of Philadelphian history, Buckner decided to let me take a small bottled culture home, on the one condition that I deliver it to the University of Pennsylvania’s biology department within the week. His men made quick work of the sacks of malt, loading them onto the back of a wooden framed truck, to be hauled away as contraband to warehouses unknown.

I signed the papers. Buckner seemed pleased, and thanked me, on behalf of the US government, for my understanding and cooperation during this period of transition. With a tip of his hat, he said, “I’ve always liked your beer.” He turned and looked at the kettles. “It’ll be sad to see this place turned into a stinking fish den. But I have to do my job. No hard feelings, I hope.”

“None.” I said. “The law is the law.” Buckner seemed very pleased with the obedient nature of my last comment. He turned and left, head down, reviewing his papers one last time.

Virginia grinned at me. I threw a smile back.

Beneath our feet, tucked under some old planks and almost forgotten rusted grates, hid thirteen pristine sacks. Just shy of 650 pounds of American two-row barley.

Welcome to chapter eight of “December, 1919″, a serialized novel written by Oliver Gray. New chapters will be published every Wednesday (or Thursday, sorry!). Links to all published chapters can be found here.

Chapter 8

Blood dripped and slipped through the rollers of the mill. William cradled his hand, wailing inconsolably, like the machine had ripped it clean off. I turned his palm upward to examine the wound, careful not cause any more undue pain. It was an ugly slash, glistening red and slick, but nothing some iodine and fresh bandages couldn’t fix.

“Oh, William, this isn’t so bad. It’s pretty superficial.” I said, half-lying, trying to keep him from panicking.

“I could have lost my hand!” He said, unsatisfied. “That thing is a death trap.” He pointed at the grist mill with his good hand, keeping the other, wrapped in the now crimson and white of his over shirt, close to his chest.

“You’ll live,” I said. “There’s some aspirin in my bag. You should probably take some before the throbbing kicks in.”

He shuffled off, so I continued the disassembly work. When in use, the mill heaved and chunked, its joints creaky and achy from old age and rust. It should have been replaced years ago, but my father had sworn the gap between the rollers was so perfect, he dare not mess with it. In defense of his eccentricity, our grists had been finer and our brew days smoother since he unlocked the magic of the ancient mill, but as I sat with a wrench and screw driver, separating sheets of sharp, worn metal, I realized just how dangerously out of service it had become.

William had made a deal to sell it to a local wheat farmer for much more than it was probably worth, and given that Nate hadn’t paid me after my little mayor-fueled disappearing show, I needed the money. William continued to whimper like pathetic puppy even though the bleeding had stopped. His quiet sobbing summed up the feeling in the brewery, embodied the sinking emotions of everyone having to pack and box up their jobs, their dreams, their lives, all so the now illegal parcel could be inspected and checked off a list by some nameless IRS lackey in the coming days.

From underneath the shoot, with catcher removed, I picked out large bits of old malt, briefly turning on the motor to clear out any smaller, hidden grains. The mill spun violently, twin rollers moving in opposite directions, inhaling soft, fresh, sweet kernels, mangling them, exposing their unprotected insides before unceremoniously dumping them onto the floor.

But without that brutal journey through and transformation at the maw of a many-toothed monster, the malt would never fulfill a greater destiny, never start the great cycle of conversion and consumption, of birth and decay, of disparate parts coming together to make a greater whole. My father always extolled yeast as the veritable mother of all brewing, but to me, a beer’s real life began at the mill.

Virginia moved silently, like a cat trying to avoid detection. The purple-black under her eye had faded to mottled yellow and brown. She’d come in early and said nothing to me, scouring the inside of the mash tun as if we were going to brew. The rhythmic shick and slide of her coarse sponge on the stainless steel played a background beat to the rest of our work, a somber melody of shuffling sacks and tired sighs. George made no appearances.

As I wrenched loose the bolt holding one of the rollers in place, Virginia passed behind me, moving towards the fermentation tanks. My nerves stood at full attention, sending a shivery salute down my spine when my nose caught the waft of her shampoo.

“Going to be hard to brew without a mill.” She said, an ethereal whisper dissipating into the cold air.

I turned to respond, but she’d already moved out of earshot. I figured after that night, after George had discovered us and threatened us, that she would have given up this crazy crusade. But apparently I was wrong. Always underestimating. Never quite finding that rarefied wavelength where Ginnie buzzed so beautifully with life. Her brown mop bobbed back and forth as she scrubbed.

William caught me staring.

“It’s OK, Jack.” He said, much calmer. “I know you’re both young, but it’s pretty easy to see what’s going on here.”

“Because of George?” William plopped down next to me, right hand firmly squeezing left. “He’s her father, sure, but she’s allowed to make her own decisions. She’s nineteen. No longer bound to his direction, legally.”

I knew George didn’t give a damn about the law. “Thanks, William.” I said, forcing a smile.

“No one knows what’s going to happen. This new law might only last a year or two. Or it might go on forever.” He said, looking across at Virginia. “My point, and the thing you should be focused on, is that we don’t have much certainty to cling to these days. When there’s a sure thing, and you can feel the truth of it so deep in your bones, you should probably go for it. Consequences be damned.”

His words swam around my brain like an Olympian doing laps. I’d allowed my December days to fill to the brim with anger, regret, crippling self-pity, meanwhile ignoring all the potential beauty of a brand new January.

After a brief silence, he nudged my arm, and asked for help up. Once back on his feet, he hugged me, announcing he was going home to have his wife, Mary, nurse his hand. Soon after William, the last of the day workers we’d hired said their goodbyes with tipped hats, leaving the two of us alone, again.

“I’m going to tell William not to sell the mill.” I said, clanging my wrench on the metal still attached to the hopper. “I’ll find a way to make money. Maybe more hours at the paper.” The declaration met only with silence, so I walked over to the tank Ginnie had cloistered herself in like a spring robin on her nest.

“I ruined the perfect gap,” I said, waving the loose roller in front of my face, “but I guess that’s OK. I’ll set it up myself this time.”

Virginia climbed out of the fermentation tank and stood in front of me. “Good.” She said, wrapping one arm around my waist. “And I agree.”

“Agree with what?” I asked.

“William.” She whispered, resting her head against my chest. The sun hovered halfway down the horizon, throwing its rippled twin across the blue and green sprawl of the Delaware as the planet, and my heart, embraced the coming night.

Welcome to chapter five of “December, 1919″, a serialized novel written by Oliver Gray. New chapters will be published every Wednesday. Links to all published chapters can be found here.

Chapter 5

“Are you insane?”

My voice bounded and then rebounded off the tinny walls of the malt warehouse like it was playing tag with itself. Virginia had asked me to stay late and help her organize the malts for the upcoming inspection, promising George we could handle it and all but demanding he go home. It felt strange to be alone with her when the kettles were cold and dormant, but it was hard to refuse her when she got her heart and mind set on an idea.

“Maybe. But what else are we going to do with this place?” she said, holding her arms up and spinning around. “I’ve been thinking about this since they first took that nonsense before Congress. We’d never be suspected of anything, given your age.”

I shrugged, unsure what to say. She kicked a sack of malt, sending a puff of dust out across the floor. “I thought you’d be more into it. You’re the perfect cover,” she said, bumping her shoulder into mine, “well you and the fish.”

A simple plan. A stupid plan. But a plan, where I’d thought of nothing. The smell of the fish would mask the smell of malts and hops, but continuing to brew, right here, under the nose of investigators, seemed crazier than trying to give a rabid wolf a bubble bath. “Aren’t you worried?” I said.

“About what?” She jumped up onto the miniature pyramid of sacks. “I’ve been reading about the Caribbean rum runners,” she said, looking half a pirate herself in the subtle glow of the moon. “They got away with it by being sneaky. So we brew at night, when no one can see the steam. You keep working at the paper,” she said, nodding inclusively at me, “and make a formal statement that the brewery is complying with the federal mandate to close down. We give the fish monger a cut, and he says nothing. We roll the finished barrels and bottles down the docks, and load them onto a boat.”

The confidence in her voice resounded, filling the entirety of the space. She stood atop that malty throne like nothing in the world could touch her, like she was the queen of the quaff, the baroness of bootlegging. For a fleeting second I wanted to jump up there with her, grab her, kiss her, throw all my inborn caution to the winds of illegal fate. But I hesitated. My mother’s rationtionality ran thick in my marrow, and my bravery scurried off into the shadows.

“What about George?” I asked, mining my brain for any excuse to temper her. “He’ll catch us way faster than the police, and, um, how exactly are we going to brew without him?”

“Leave my dad to me,” she said, as if she had any control over George. “His pride won’t let him go without work for long. Soon enough he’ll be too busy to keep up with what I’m doing. If I’m bringing in money, he’s not likely to care where it came from. As for the brewing, you and I have been doing this long enough to make a few batches ourselves.”

I shrugged again. “It all sounds pretty wild, Ginnie, but,” my voice dropped. “Why?” I turned and look around at the kernels of malt strewn near the mill. “If the government wants to ban alcohol, that’s what they’re going to do. We can find other work, and move onto something else.”

Her expression shifted from conviction to dejection. She clambered down from her makeshift throne and over to me. Taking my hand, she guided me back into the main room of the brewery, to the rows of fermenter, the gleaming kettle, the maze of pipes like the nervous system of the brewery.

“Why?” she whispered. “This is why. Your grandfather built this place, and your father made it his life. This yeast soaked mess is our home, Jack. We break the law so we don’t break our spirits.”

She ran her hand along the kettle. “I don’t know anything or anywhere else, really.” I locked my eyes to hers in a brown and green tango of romantic shyness. “I don’t know anyone else, either.” She moved in closer, putting one arm around my back and resting her head in the nook of my shoulder. “This place is my everything, and I can’t just let it disappear like it never existed.” I hugged her, relishing the closeness.

“OK.” I said.

“OK?” She looked up at me.

“But we take it real slow. And give it all up at the first sign of trouble. And don’t drag anyone else into it unless we absolutely have to.” I said, trying to build in some insurance. “Deal?”

“Deal!” She threw both arms around my neck. I thought, as her face moved near mine, that she was going to kiss me, but she instead dropped her head next to mine, filling my mouth and nose with a bushel of sweet smelling hair.

“What the hell do you two think you’re doing?” a voice growled from near the main doors. Even George’s shadow, that massive creeping silhouette, seemed angry. You could almost smell the whiskey in his words. “I leave you two alone for a minute and this shit happens. I should have suspected it. Go home, Jack, before I take you there myself.”

“George, we were just…” I said.

“I don’t want to know.” he said, almost sounding disgusted. “I’m sure it’s Virginia’s fault anyway. Always with the boys.” He stomped further into the brewery, eyes red and glossy. I could feel Virginia tensing against me, bracing herself for the coming onslaught.

“Dad, it’s Jack. We’ve known each other forever. Let’s just go home.” she said, trying to plead with the man behind the drunk.

“No. He’s not the same old Jack. Andrew made sure of that when he left the brewery to him, not me.” His words slurred slightly, like his tongue was caught in a fishing net.

I stepped forward, putting myself between father and daughter. “George, I didn’t choose how this worked out, it just did. Don’t blame me or Ginnie.” George dominated the space, looming at least a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than me.

“I’ll blame who I want, boy.” The emphasis on the last word hovered in the air, a poisonous cloud of hate and anger. “Now move. I need to discipline my overly familiar daughter.”

“No.” I said.

George spoke next with his fist. A quick jab dropped me to my knees, ribs aching, air rushing out of my lungs. I tried to recover, but couldn’t move or catch my breath. George pulled me up by my hair.

As he pulled his fist back, knuckles white with rage, breath reeking, ready to single-handedly put me to bed, a sharp gunshot split the night in two.

Welcome to chapter four of “December, 1919″, a serialized novel written by Oliver Gray. New chapters will be published every Wednesday. Links to all published chapters can be found here.

Chapter 4

As the hammer sank the pin deep into the flesh of the primer, a spark nested in a bed of powder, heating it, igniting it, exploding it, forcing the bullet out of its cozy barreled home into the crisp December air. The cold didn’t slow its attack; it seemed neither bothered nor fettered by the chill as it ripped into the wood at the end of the lane much faster than my eyes could track it. Before the man-shaped target could recover from the first blow, a second, then a third, then a fourth pounded into his chest and neck. Every time the gun roared out into the afternoon, my eyes involuntarily blinked. Like a modern, metal Medusa, they didn’t want to look directly at the fury, lest it turn its deadly attention on me.

A fifth shot careened wide, just to the left. McGuire lowered his pistol and exhaled deeply.

“Don’t just stand there, kid. Either shoot or leave. I hate having someone looking over my shoulder. Makes me nervous.” he said, without turning to look at me.

“I’m sorry,” I said, words manifesting as puffs of steam, “I don’t shoot. I mean I’ve never shot. My father didn’t like guns.” The targets shuddering under the force of all the slugs sent my mind down a dark alley that lead to an image of my father, down and bleeding, multiple holes in his back.

“Funny attitude for a veteran,” he said, carefully sliding bullets into the magazine with practiced, calloused fingers. “I suppose I can understand that. Your dad was a good soldier, but never really cut out for a life of fighting.”

The non-stop shots, coming at random intervals, echoed out into the skyline, eventually fading out somewhere near the clouds. I closed my eyes and in my mind tried to layer yelling, cries of pain, and artillery strikes on top of the gunfire. No one ever talked about the war much, and I had no way of knowing what my father, McGuire, and those hundreds of thousands of other men had endured. Every crack and bang crept through my subconscious like a worm made of fear, playing back all those nights my dad had woken up in the worst part of his dreams, screaming, crying, shaking at some memory of northern France.

“Nate told me you’d be here, so I…”

McGuire interrupted, “of course he told you I’d be here. Bet he didn’t tell you why I’d be here.” He fired his eighth shot with composure, plugging a perfect hole in the middle of the circle on the target’s right shoulder. “See that goon with slicked back hair in lane 10? That’s Joseph Cavoli, some glorified knuckleduster from New York. Next to him, in the sharp grey suit? Brian Cleary, a distiller from Boston. Both claimed to have come down here to find work, but it’s been two months, and neither have jobs. They’ve been chummy with detective Berman, and I want to know why.”

I watched the two men fire shiny new revolvers. They lacked the grace and precision of McGuire, but made up for it in enthusiasm. Six shots for every one of McGuire’s. They laughed with each other, dropping bullet after bullet into spinning chambers, but from this distance, it was impossible to make out what they were saying.

“Look kid, I know why you’re here. I knew you’d read those notes,” he said, finally setting the gun down and turning to face me. In his olive drab jacket he looked like a quintessential soldier; broad, brave, bold. “I can’t help you. Not yet at least. I’m working from the ghost of a hunch here. I knew you’d come find me, I just didn’t think you’d come find me here.” Smoke from the powder had started to choke the afternoon with sulfur and charcoal.

I stood silently, partly unsure what to say, partly intimidated by place and presence. McGuire forced a smile. “If I find out anything, I’ll tell you and your mother first. Please just trust me. Don’t you have more important things to do than follow me around, anyway? Like, maybe, oh, I don’t know, running a brewery?”

I blushed. He had a point. I’d just run off and left everything to George in my fog of selfish mourning. As I turned to leave, I stopped, brain whirring. “Wait, how did you know about that?”

“There’s not much goes on in this city I don’t know about,” he said. “Call it reporter’s intuition.” He smiled. I nodded.

“Oh, and kid? Do yourself a favor. Learn how to shoot. I have a feeling the streets of Philadelphia are going to get a lot uglier in the wake of the 18th.” McGuire turned back to his target, raised his pistol, and fired.

Virginia slung herself halfway into the window of the kettle, sucking in the sweet steam from the wort. “Hops! We need more hops!”

George sighed. “It’s a pale ale for chrissake! If we add any more hops it’s going to be too bitter to drink. You have to learn the limits of these things, Virginia.”

“But they smell so good! Looks, Jack will agree with me. Needs more hops, right Jack?” She swung down off the small step ladder and ran over to me. George glared at me before sinking his shovel into a huge pile of spent grain. “So glad you found some time to come see us. Are you just going to stand there, or actually try to do some work?” He said, tossing the shovel to me. “This pile needs to be moved so that farmer Prescott can come pick it up. I said he could have this batch.”

“Free?” I said. “Dad usually sold it for a pennies a pound.”

“Well your dad ain’t here, is he?” George said, “Prescott had a rough crop last summer and he needs to keep his animals fed, so I said he could have it. We ain’t using it for anything anymore. There’s more to this business than beer and dollars. Your dad knew that.”

Virginia nudged me with her elbow and whispered, “Don’t mind him. He’s just being grumpy. Come smell this wort. Don’t you think it needs more hops?” She grabbed my hand and jerked me across the room to the kettle. As she dangled again, steam rising up through her curls, the malt mixed with her Watkins hair rinse, flooding my brain with delicious memories. She reached up and grabbed me by the waist, pulling me down down to her level.

“I’ve got a plan, like we talked about before” she said, in the privacy of their bubbling kettle. “But we can’t tell George.”

Got a special gal or guy in your life who is really into beer? Need to show your love for them on this totally not manufactured love-fest holiday? Not sure how to express your undying devotion but also your appreciation for their great taste in fermented drinks?

We got your covered. With a little help from my fellow beer-romantic Bryan Roth, I give you another round of Beery Valentines Day cards (last year’s cards can be found here):

Did you guys see that? That jet’s chemtrails totally spelled out my name for a second there. I swear.

Anyways, by now you’ve heard (and are sick of) the news. Blah blah, AB InBev bought Goose Island, and 10-Barrel, and Elysian. It happened. It was no big deal. Or a really big deal. Or sort of bad. Or really good?

Jury’s still out (but not on my case, I’ve been upgraded from “trespassing” to “pending psychological evaluation”).

While news like this always shocks, appearing as if by spontaneous generation from the social media feeds of brewers we’ve long imbibed, it’s an inevitability. AB InBev (and to a slightly lesser extent their conglomerate peers at SABMiller) is losing the beer war one brewery battle at a time. Bud sales continue to roll downhill, and the flat bottom or an upward turn seem impossibly distant. They’ve tried throwing fistfuls of hundreds at the problem, tried marketing, tried gimmicks, tried to tap into a generation that for the most part, doesn’t care at all about their corporate messaging or demographic targeting.

But they’re losing. Slowly maybe, but still losing. And losing money. That has to chap some suit-covered asses.

Every time I think about this situation, my mind wanders back around to the beer itself: if AB InBev concedes ground where it comes down to quality, why don’t they just invest some of their massive resources to brew a beer that appeals to those drinkers cutting into their market? Why not fight fire with fire, dry-hopping with dry-hopping, exotic yeast with exotic yeast? It seems like a no-brainer from the sidelines, and I can never quite lift the baffling fog of why they haven’t at least tried in the modern beer world (we’ll ignore Budweiser American Ale for now because that’s convenient to my argument).

Aside from the obvious image problem AB InBev has with younger drinkers, that’s not how a massive, multinational corporation rolls. Walmart doesn’t really care if Target’s good and services are better, they only care that their prices are cheap enough to get shoppers in the door. TimeWarner doesn’t care if your internet is slow or a jackalope has made a nest in your modem, they only care that it works well enough that you pay your monthly bill. Much the same, AB InBev doesn’t appear to be in the game of making beer people want to drink, they appear to be in the game of making money by producing beer that is 1) “acceptable enough that the consumer buys it” while also being 2) “made as cheaply as possible to meet requirement 1.”

That’s it. They don’t care if we like the beer, they only care if we buy it (as an aside, I think this is the crux of the defintion debate in “craft:” indie brewers let beer drive the money while big brewers let money drive the beer).

Why would they try to compete directly with any of the very highly rated and well-loved breweries in the country when that amounts to a big, risky expenditure of resources and a crap load of work? It’s much easier for them to buy existing large breweries and assimilate their fan base instead, thereby making the previously independent brewery’s success AB InBev’s by managerial association. Way less work, no direct competition with pesky things like “consumer satisfaction,” and all that juicy profit sharing.

But none of this is really news, or part of any conspiracy. It’s Capitalism doing what Capitalism does. No, the conspiracy hides behind the kerfuffle of beer dudes arguing over whether Elysian is still craft or not (guilty as charged), and in clandestine meetings under the cover of public din:

Big beer is buying up large breweries as a smokescreen for changing distribution and manipulating the way beer is sold in this country.

Boom.

Chris Barnes of I Think About Beer notes that AB InBev spends a pretty penny on lawyers and lobbyist, and have snatched up distributors in the states where it’s legal to do so, all to mold how beer is sold and distributed in various states. While Big Beer purchasing a single brewery might cause that brewery to lose some favor, or (potentially) decline in quality over time as ingredients are (potentially) changed, that’s not the end of the world. Sucks for said brewery and its fans, but that won’t spell the end of independent brewing alone.

But if AB-InBev manages to monopolize the distribution chain, or dramatically change how the three-tier system works, they can then control what beers show up in what bars, what bottles on what shelves, and ultimately, what liquid goes down your, my, and everyone’s gullet. They can stymie the growth of smaller, independent breweries by lobbying to keep barrel threshold caps low, and keep breweries from directly selling to their consumers. They’ll twist and mangle the wreckage of the distribution networks so that local breweries can’t sell anything, anywhere without AB InBev having a hand in their business (and their wallets).

That’s where their financial power and underhanded business practices start to get scary. They don’t even plan to fight “good” beer head-to-head, because they know they’ll lose in terms of taste and consumer interest. Instead they’re changing the battlefield, methodically working to make sure consumers can’t even buy “good” beer through wanton destruction of competition. But at the same time, they’re not stupid, and recognize a growing number of people won’t buy Bud, even if it’s the only option. They’ll buy up enough breweries to keep the 10% “craft portion” sedated with a heavy dose of hops, and then do everything in their power to wrestle back the market share they’ve lost by making sure that when any person buys a beer, their only option is to buy an AB InBev beer.

So while we squabble and wail at the defilement of our culture, the gears clunk and shift in the background. We’re being fleeced by the cool and calm Carlos Brito, lead to believe this is a war of philosophy and ethics, of “us vs. them” binaries, when it’s really a war of preserving our freedom of choice. It’s about one player controlling the whole board, but convincing you that Park Place and Boardwalk are still great places to visit while they line their pockets with all those fat tourism dollars.

Pass me my tinfoil hat (it’s over there, next to that cast of the Sasquatch foot I paid $1000 for on eBay because it’s totally legit); I’ll whirl us even further down Alice’s LSD spiked rabbit hole of Dystopian beer future.

If this trend continues, and AB-InBev gets its way, we’ll see a “Walmartization” of all American beer, where the few products they sling are so affordable and so readily available (but just tasty enough) that most people buy them out of laziness and cheapness. We’ll see large, chained, retail stores that sell AB InBev products and nothing else, and they’ll be so successful that any small breweries who want to compete will have to “pay-to-play” to get on the shelves. And then, as we’re all still bickering on Twitter, the beer industry will slip back to the post-Prohibition number of breweries because no little guy can compete, and eventually, given enough time and market control, degrade to a situation where all beer is generic, cheaply made barley-identifiable-as-beer liquid that sells really well because no one knows any better but still want to get drunk.

Wait a second…

Oh, no, we’re OK. I thought I those chemtrails were making death threats.

The next time AB InBev buys up a brewery (and they will buy others), take a look at what else they’re doing. I wouldn’t be shocked if oh so coincidentally, at the very same time, bills were being voted on, people were being elected, or policy was being reviewed. Even if they start to posture, put out commercials that claim they care about beer, remember that in the Brito bubble, beer = money. Don’t be fooled into thinking that AB InBev is going to fight chivalrously. If they ever show up to duel, it’ll be with poisoned spear tips and snipers in the crowds.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go clean a Jackalope nest out of my modem.

Cultural trends evolve the same way as genes, mutating to survive, adopting those traits that give them the most benefit against the hostility of their current environment. Language mimics an ecosystem; some words that stand out for their offensiveness or callousness die of exposure, or unceremoniously at the hands of predators, while other words spring to life almost randomly as young people explore the fertile lands of linguistics, dropping seeds of pop culture as they go. Some words slowly dwindle into obscurity from years of poaching and misappropriation or abuse and overuse. Others, like forgotten floppy discs in the back corner of your closet, disappear through no fault of their own, victims of the inevitable obsolescence associated with an ever-changing lexiconic landscape.

The word “craft” (as related to beer) has picked at my brain like a crow on a corpse, mainly because it always feels sort of tacked-on, overly explanatory, even defensive. On a recent trip out to Annapolis, I heard a waiter declare proudly that his restaurant had “several craft beers available,” really emphasizing the F and T, as if he wasn’t exactly sure what the phrase meant, but it was important that he said it, and that his customers understood that this beer was special by virtue of a single adjective.

Etymologically, all Germanic, Dutch, and Old English roots of the word (kraft, kracht, and cræft, respectively) mean “skill” and “strength” which is certainly appropriate given American beer drinker’s constant flirtation with high ABV. But the contemporary application of the word feels somehow wrong, far too nebulous, relating to something emotional, psychological, that cannot be easily quantified. It took fellow local beer writer Tom Cizauskas commenting on one of my posts for me to finally realize why it always gave me pause when I typed it, like he reached into my brain and solved the long-jumbled Rubik’s Cube for me:

“What is ‘craft’? Homemade? Then the use of stainless-steel and machines would seem un-craft. Size? Then ‘craft’ punishes craft’s success. Taste? Then size doesn’t matter. Quality? Then many small breweries quite often are not ‘craft.’ At their worst, craft’s apostles can sound shrilly solipsistic. The term ‘craft’ has become as meaningless as the term ‘IPA,’ and as irrelevant as mud for the enjoyment of beer.”

“Craft” – as an identifier for beer – has become a suit jacket that no longer fits the swollen mass of our brewing industry. When viewed from an outsider’s perspective, it looks silly and ill-fitting, like an adult trying to hold onto the vestiges of their childhood because they’re not quite ready to grow up. Worse, “craft” – as an identifier for the enthusiast – has been maligned, or at least realigned, to mean “snob,” “elitist,” “trendy,” and “exclusive.” Even if that isn’t personally true for you, it’s a real thing that while great for satire, hurts the entire industry, and keeps potential new fans of less hardy conviction at a cultural sword’s length.

Not, by any stretch, to suggest the word is useless. From a marketing perspective, marrying another word to “beer” proved a brilliant move; it gave enthusiasts a unified banner to rally behind, decorated the heraldry of many a beard-clad revolutionary, and instilled an entire subculture with a sense of identity. “Craft” differentiated the methodologies and approaches of smaller brewers from those of the giants of Budweiser, Miller, and Coors, just enough to give them traction in the market, and stand a chance against the titanic footprint of pale American lager. It is possible these five little letters are to be hugged and kissed and loved for their influence, always looked upon with starry-eyed reverence.

But it’s time to take the training wheels off. “Craft” has served its purpose, and helped the smaller breweries bring their products to the forefront of tap lineups and store shelves, given them a chance to compete for taste-bud real estate. It’s time to compare the apples to the apples, or more aptly, the pints to the pints.

To risk putting forward an ineffective call to action, I propose that beer enthusiasts stop using the word “craft.”I don’t propose they replace it with something else, but simply let it vanish into the fog of human history, to be remarked upon by the historians of some distant generation. I don’t propose we make a big deal about not using it any more, and instead let it slip out of our vernacular like so many other phrases du jour. I don’t propose we do anything except only refer to beer as what it actually is: beer.

Instead of relying on the dubious definitions associated with a made-up prefix, let’s instead judge every beer on how it tastes; every brewery individually for the merits and faults of their recipes and execution; every brewpub on its freshness, atmosphere, and service. If our beer is as good as we all claim it is, we shouldn’t be worried, right? Many in the community are concerned about quality, and unfortunately, the current phrasing gives less consistent breweries a shield to hide behind, a scapegoat for an “off” beer under the guise of the ever-accepting umbrella of “craft.” By not using the word anymore, every brewery – from White Plains to Escondido – can be treated as equals. People can experience any and every beer they want, 12ozs at a time, without fear of being put into any one group, deciding for themselves what beer is good, regardless of what oddly specific definition it falls under.

When beer is just beer, we can look at it more objectively. The cheerleading and cultural gerrymandering will drop off to a minimum, easily picked out instead of easily blending in. The “craft” beer community has done an admirable job of pulling the industry out of the shadow of big brewing, but it’s time to drop the nicknames, let beer be beer, and watch it fly on its own.